and now I'll just nonchalantly eat a star shaped cookie so that you wont suspect me.
How many times do I have to tell you? There are only two things that are impossible in this world. One: to slam a revolving door, and two: you.
I don’t even really like peanut butter. Some people can get a giant spoonful and eat it alone, but I just can’t do it.(trust me, I’ve tried.) Some people might classify that as crazy. But I get that a lot so it’s not really insulting.. or untrue for that matter.
I’m not remarkable. never was, never will be. Its everyone’s dream to change someone’s life. everyone wants to be the reason someone changed or opened their eyes. everyone wants to mean something to anybody. People don’t want a million people to adore them and to care about them, they want one. Just one. Is it so much to ask for just one person in this…mad world?
I get absolutely everything i could possibly want. I have a house, a family, something to call my own and protect with my life. i have friends. I am content. I have everything I want, i couldn’t ask for more. and I don’t want more.
everything i want, but nothing I need.
Don’t get me wrong. my parents love me, they support me, keep me in line, they yell at me when i need to be yelled at, they hug me even if i don’t want them to.
What is wrong with me? Teen angst at its worst perhaps? but i hate to think my “epiphanies” are just a spontaneous burst of hormones. Which sounds sort of gross. If you think about it… *long exasperated sigh*
I’m not going to make a big deal out of this, but I undoubtedly will. Mostly I am simply fascinated and easy to please. But usually I keep even those who I love or care deeply about at arms length because I’ve been hurt before. but EVERYONE does that, so I’m no special case.
I hate reading magazines in checkout lines, but since there is nothing better to do, I read them, and I always feel disappointed and almost embarrassed to be reading it. On one page of some magazine about famous people, it was saying how “Famous people are just like us” (they said it much more glamorously than that) But I just sort of laughed a little. Really? So, once you become famous, everyone thinks you’re immortal? (Yes I kid you not, some people really are that opaque). Like it’s SO weird to think of Scarlett Johansson getting gas for their car or something.
You see, once people become famous, little children, they no longer need something as lowly as oxygen or food.
Anyway… I suddenly feel like going to a place where it has those really big aquariums where you can look in and see a giant whale gliding harmoniously through the water. I just think that would be the closest thing to magic there is.
Or maybe an art or photography museum or something. Somewhere where I can look at a picture or painting someone else made and feel the emotion of the image. I’m sick of feeling what I feel.
Wow I sound like a crazy person. Really, I just want to go.
It's like walking into a theatre to see a movie you know nothing about, but arriving late, so you have no clue what's going on.
This is fun. I wrote this during Zoology class one day
So he stood, balenced and secluded on the black railing, his eyes glistening like dewdrops in the light of a full moon. He clutched the mahogany cane that his deseased wife gave him so long ago, in his cold brittle hand, as he posied confidently upon the railing. One slip of his foot and he would fall, swiftly like a diving kite, from the precarious rooftop of the thirty story hotel.
Suddenly he opened his mouch and I drew in a sharp breath inhaling the icy air, my throat immediately frozen.
His voice was quiet and wise. It almost seemed like the world hushed itself and leaned in closer to catch every word he uttered. Birds stopped their chatter on the rooftop edge, and the wind grew still.
"Would you like to try?" He asked, holding out his aged hand.
I shook my head. Seeing the terror in my eyes as I glanced nervously over the edge, he pulled his hand away, smiled curiously, and jumped.
I scream barely escaped my lips and my heart skipped in horror, before he landed sure-footedly on the rooftop before me.
"You scared me!" I croaked quietly, barely heard over the dryness of my throat.
Iv’e been sitting here for the past five minutes staring blankly at blank pages. I don’t know why i feel like I have to find the right words to say this because nobody is even listening to me. It’s like talking through a megaphone into an empty room. But still, Ihave an unquenchable desire to do things right.
I could tell you why a girl my age is sitting at home in front of a computer screen, but if you think about it, better this than the alternative. Out “Having a good time” can turn into rehab and parenthood pretty fast in this day and age.. I’m sorry. Was that too bold?
So pretty much the story goes like this: I was born on a small, wooden pirate ship on the night of the most horrific storm in the history of the red sea. My mother and father were, you guessed it: pirates. But hardly the killing kind. Mostly they just fished for long periods of time and just called themselves pirates for fun.
There was salt water crashing into my poor mother’s eyes as she struggled to give birth. My dad held my mothers hand for every second he could before he was whisked off to help pull down the sails from the dramatic wind. The winds blew ferociously determined to overthrow the small ship. The night was long and exhausting and after giving birth, my mother slept for a few days.
After 7 years of living on the boat, seeing that these conditions were far too harsh to raise a child, she opted with my father to travel to europe, where she could teach me how to live on land.
After 6 months in europe, she took me to Africa where I learned to ride elephants, and painted on zebras and to speak Swahili, a beautiful language. I simply became fascinated by the world and soon my desire to learn became a burning passion. That even the blasts of water from the elephant’s trunk could not put out..
I just hope the staircase to heaven Isn't too much of an incline...I have asthma.
If I do go to Heaven, I mean. Which I hope I do. I heard Hell really sucks.
It really bothers me sometimes that I have feelings. Sometimes I wish I could just read other people’s minds; save myself the indigestion and heartaches… Okay I admit freely, I am just like any other teenage girl… Ice cream has cushioned the blow too many times to count. I owe my soul to Breyers… And Kleenex. Oh, and praise the Lord for waterproof mascara.
Don’t you hate when even the slightest, insignificant thing just makes you want to burst into tears? Or is that just me? I’m such an emotional ball of wreak sometimes I wish I could just leave myself alone and come back when I’m done blubbering. Today I cried over a broken pencil. A pencil. *Rolls eyes*.
It might be PMS, or maybe something is wrong with me.. I just need to be away from people for a while. Which is why I so desperately desire to get out of this sad excuse for a town called Fresno, and go live somewhere where I can spread my tattered wings and make something of myself..
Maybe I don’t hate fresno THAT much. It’s actually not that bad and I secretly like it. But It’s times like these when I really start daydreaming. Only to be awoken by the sound of one of my teachers yanking me into reality.
Don’t you hate when teachers wake you up from a good dream?
Someone once asked me what one of my favourite animals was. I responded: “A bird.”
"Why? What can a bird do that you can’t?"
I’m so jealous of birds. they have a beautiful way of being. I’m fascinated by them and everything about them. Some birds are scary, true, But most birds are absolutely magnificent. they seem to have a natural smoothness and likeableness to them. At least to me anyway.
I don’t really write these for anyone. I mostly write them for myself. It feels good just to get these thoughts out there, even if nobody is hearing them.
"If a blogger makes a post, and nobody is around to read it, does the blogger still benefit? " :)
The Hidden (and evil) Agenda of Magazines and Their affiliates
One day a girl was standing in line with her mother at a grocery store and she noticed a magazine that had a picture of a thin woman smiling happily on the front. The magazine pointed out various aspects of the woman that were considered “beautiful.” Her shapely fit body, Her thick lips and wide eyes, her face flawless and glowing radiantly, her exquisitely white and straight teeth, perfectly shaped eyes and plucked eyebrows, not a hair on her head out of place, her long legs tan and toned… The girl pondered it for a moment. Is this beauty?
When they got home, the girl stood in front of the mirror and examined herself. Her nose was a little too big, her eyes sunken and sad looking, her hair was tousled from the day’s activities.. she went down the list of all the “beautiful” qualities, and noticed she was nothing close to it. She looked down at her curvy body and pinched disgustedly at her the fat of her arms, stomach and legs. She wanted to be beautiful. She wanted to have a lot of friends and for people to notice her. And she was willing to give up anything for it.
Slowly she ate less and less buying clothes that hid her “ugly and fat” body. She stopped seeing friends because she didn’t want people so see her so “hideous”. She exercised constantly and gave up homework for insane, exercise routines. Her parents tried desperately to get her to stop, to get her help, but it was too late. The lies of the media had already spun their entrapping web in yet another girl’s mind, pulling her in so far it was inescapable. She cried for hours at night and told herself that when this was all over she would be beautiful. If she just went one more day without any food she would be wanted. Her friends tried constantly trying to get her to stop, telling her that they thought she was beautiful no matter what, but all she could think was how much she hated herself.
I used to think I needed to be skinner, to buy lots of makeup, and to have more friends, but I realized something. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t happy barely eating, I wasn’t happy wearing more makeup than a clown, and my friends liked me better when i was myself. I also realized that in a couple years nobody would remember what I wore that day, or how my hair looked. And after realizing that, I actualized that I was much better at being myself than trying to be anybody else, and that I like myself. (Which is dangerous for the media’s job.. If more girls loved themselves, they’d be out of work.) Maybe I have a big nose and I get pimples sometimes, But in the broad scale of things, they don’t matter.